Faye Kellerman: Prayers for the Dead

“Does your brother work?” Decker pressed.

“What?” Bram’s eyes stared at nothing. “Pardon?”

“What does your twin brother do?”

“Luke’s a drug and alcohol rehabilitation counselor.”

“Another one in the helping profession,” Decker said.

Bram was quiet.

“Where does he work?” Decker paused. “Are my questions getting on your nerves, Father? I don’t want to upset you.”

“You can call me Bram. Everyone else does.” The priest rubbed his eyes. “I know you have to ask basic questions. I don’t resent them or you. Luke works at the Bomb Shelter.”

Decker paused. The Bomb Shelter was a halfway house with a reputation for hiring former addicts and rehabilitated ex-cons as counselors. “Does he live there?”

“No.”

“He’s married? Single? Divorced?”

“Luke’s married. Has a couple of kids.”

“Is your brother an ex-user?” Decker asked.

“Lieutenant, if you want personal information about Luke, ask Luke.”

“Fair enough. How about your brother Paul? What kind of work does he do?”

“He’s a stockbroker. Married. Four kids. My sister Eva’s married as well. She and her husband own a chain of clothing stores. They have four children under the age of seven. A fertile bunch. Making up for me. You’ve met Mike. He’s in his second year of medical school, lives at home, going with a very nice girl from the church. Dad’s church, not mine. I’m the only Catholic in the bunch. Magdeleine’s the baby of the family. She’s in her second year of college at UCLA. Psych major. She wants to be a social worker. That’s the family in a nutshell.”

“I appreciate you talking to me.”

Bram sank into silence.

Decker glanced at the priest, but said nothing. Usually, people under these circumstances…all they needed was a prompt or two and they became fountains of verbal diarrhea. They spoke from raw-edged nerves, from gut-stinging anxiety, spitting out whatever came to mind. This one was quiet. Not uncooperative, but he spoke with measured words.

And then it dawned on Decker. Bram was a priest. Secrecy was his stock-in-trade.

They drove without speaking the rest of the way, Decker slowing as they neared the spot. “Over to the right.”

Bram glared out the window. “There are television cameras! How did they find out before I did?”

“Networks have people listening to local police scanners. A famous name like your father’s pops up-”

“Oh for goodness…” Bram was taut and angry. “Is there no privacy even in grief?”

Decker was quiet.

“What a crazy town,” the priest said. “Bare your soul to the world for your ten minutes of fame.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you through. You might want to duck just in case someone gets pushy.”

Bram slid down into his seat. Quickly, Decker drove up to the barricades, flashed ID to the uniforms who kept watch over the scene. Before Decker could roll up the window, a microphone was jammed into his face. Holding it was a woman crowned with an oversprayed hive of blond hair. Decker pressed the accelerator to the floor, almost taking the mike with him as the Volare thrust forward. In the distance, he could hear the blonde swearing.

Bram sat back up, his complexion wan. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bodies…or haven’t seen people die as a matter of fact.”

“It’s different when it’s your own.”

The priest said nothing. As they closed in on the Buick, a gasp escaped from his lips. In stark view was the meat wagon. Bold letters holding nothing back-LOS ANGELES COUNTY MORGUE.

Bram looked at his lap. Decker felt for him. Welcome to hell, buddy. How long will you be staying?

Two white-coated lab assistants gleamed like headlights under the back alley illumination. They were hunched over, peering inside the Buick, one of them holding the body bag. Next to them was the police photographer who was making lightning with her Nikon. Jay Craine’s car was parked a few stores down. Decker couldn’t see the Medical Examiner. Probably kneeling, examining the body.

Decker shut the motor. Bram started to open the door, but Decker held his arm. “Wait here.”

The priest had turned gray.

Decker said, “Do you feel sick?”

“Just the stench,” Bram said. “It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“Give me a moment, Father, to clear things. You’re sure you’re not sick?”

“I’ll survive.”

Decker got out of the car. Farrell Gaynor met him in front of the Buick’s grille.

“Sparks is still in the car?” Decker asked.

“Yep. Craine’s just about done. Ready to load him on the wagon.” Gaynor scratched his nose. “Who you got in the car?”

“Sparks’s son. One of his sons. He’s a priest.”

“So the son is actually the father.”

Despite the grimness, Decker smiled. “I don’t want him to see his father sprawled out like that. We’ll bag him first, put him on a stretcher. Then I’ll bring the son over to make the ID.”

“Will do.”

Decker went over to the car. Craine stood up from his knees, took a step back when he saw Decker, and brought a hand to his chest. “Do you always sneak up on people, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Jay. What do you have?”

Craine appeared pensive. “Body’s still warm, no rigor evident. The homicide’s quite recent. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Gaynor said, “Yeah, Loo, I meant to tell you. Scott Oliver called while you were gone. Sparks was at the hospital today. Last anyone remembers, he finished up a meeting with a bunch of doctors around eight. Nobody seems to know what Sparks was doing here. At Tracadero’s, that is. Because he had dinner at the hospital. At least, that’s what his secretary said. Her name is Heather Manley.”

“Is she still at the hospital?”

“I don’t know where Scotty talked to her. On the phone or at the hospital.”

“So the great man was last seen about eight.” Craine snapped up his black bag. “It’s now quarter to eleven. You have an accurate time frame. Better than the one that science could have provided.”

“Did you know him, Jay?”

“I knew of him, Lieutenant. Everyone knew about Dr. Sparks.” Craine turned away. “This is very difficult. Seeing such a man as he…butchered like this.”

“Tell me about the murder.”

“Shots to the head and neck. Severed his brain stem. Most likely that was the primary cause of death. The other savagery…the chest wounds. I’d say they were postmortem. Someone was very strong and very angry. To crack the sternum and rib cage and expose his heart. A long knife with a big blade. I found some pulverized bone matter. Anything might have been used to smash the chest cavity. A crowbar, a baseball bat. A hammer or a mallet.”

“Things easily found in any car or toolbox or kitchen,” Decker said.

“Yes,” Craine agreed. “Whoever did this was a strong person.”

“Male, then.”

“I would think. Even a strong woman…to do this much damage…” Craine furrowed his brow in concentration. “If I were you, I’d be looking for someone with a penis.”

Gaynor held back a smile. “Smashing up the chest and exposing the heart. Sounds like someone was making a statement.”

“Indubitably.” Craine took off his gloves. “We’ll take him to the morgue now. Autopsy will be done first thing tomorrow.”

Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

“It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

“I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

“Good gracious why?”